Careening merrily down my own twisted alleyway of strangeness

Friday, 16 July 2010

A little Irish pub music played by the talented group of Big Paddy at Jack Quinn’s on a Saturday night makes for an evening of laughter and people-watching – a combination that never fails to astonish, entertain, and humble. Sometimes all at once.

Big Paddy pauses during their set and we raise our glasses to the troops. A worthy toast if ever there was one. Glasses containing everything from Guinness to Crown Royal and everything in between are lifted in honor.

A young man, no older than 25, sits at the end of the bar. He too raises his glass. The bartender mentions he is Ex-Special Forces, and a frequent patron. He has clearly been disabled during his duties. I say a prayer for him.

Humility.

One happy guy dances wildly amid his group of barely-twenty-ones, bravely, drunkenly attempting to entice a few of the ladies to dance. He succeeds, and soon many are skipping and tapping to the beat of an Irish bodhran and a raucous rendition of “If I Ever Leave This World Alive” by Flogging Molly.

Entertainment.

Between songs, the band hails Patrick, a rather imposing gentleman standing at the bar, wearing a kilt, and enjoying a car bomb. He’s around 6’3, 265 lbs (give or take). Patrick is an Olympic power lifter, and apparently a rather jovial, laid-back and frequent patron of Jack Quinn’s.

The guy I'm sitting next to leans in. “This is his off season; he’s not even big yet.”

Goodnight! I can’t imagine what this guy is like when he’s in competition form.

Astonishment.

The lively mood continues unhindered. The youngsters are still dancing away, spurred on by alcohol and the promise of a few more good stories to tell “on the morrow”.

I’m waylaid by a woman determined to educate me on the Colorado law allowing women the use of the men’s restroom whenever they want.

“I ain’t waiting for no damn women’s bathroom when I can use the men’s,” she says.

You go, sister.

She rants a bit more. It’s loud, she’s sauced. I nod and smile. She disappears into the men's room. Some women think they have an automatic connection with their fellows when they are waiting in line to tinkle.

Entertainment. Again.

The bouncer leads a blind patron wearing sunglasses and carrying a walking stick to the end of the bar. A few minutes later he is in front of the stage, grooving to the beat, walking stick in one hand and a drink in the other.

He sways and grins and drinks and laughs. Gazes are drawn to him, not in pity, not in embarrassment… but in envy.

If we could all dance like the stares and thoughts of others didn’t matter – what a place it would be!

All little of all three.

Big Paddy begins another lively tune and again the floor fills up with diminished inhibitions and honest laughter. We are all here at Quinn's tonight for our own reasons, whatever they may be. One thing is certain: the music will play.

And the blind man dances on.

Dance like nobody's watching; love like you've never been hurt. Sing like nobody's listening; live like it's heaven on earth.~Mark Twain

Tuesday, 18 May 2010

I turn from my random musings at the grocery checkout line to find an older gentleman, somewhere in his late 70s, peering at me through bright blue eyes and a shock of thick, white hair.

I'm surprised at first, but smile warmly back at him. "Thank you, that's really nice," I say. I look down to remember what I'm wearing. A springy flowery top and brown dress pants. Once in a while I manage to look put together.

"You must be brave to buy your wife's clothes." I say. He's the first man I've ever met who admits to accomplishing this feat.

"I have good taste," he says. He looks thoughtful for a moment. "I firmly believe that all women should be given gifts and have clothes bought for them now and then, especially at Christmas and on their birthdays. You should even get them a car, even if you don't like it, as long as they're happy."

Imagine my astonishment - this is not something women hear very often - and certainly not in line at the grocery store.

He reminds me so much of my own grandfather, that I can't help but smiling back at him again.

"Oh, well, I have to buy her clothes and get the groceries. I'm also cook and chief bottle washer, too. My wife has Alzheimer's, so she really doesn't know what's going on most of the time."

I nod in sympathy. "I'm sorry to hear that," I say. "My grandmother has it as well."

"There are times she does know me, though, and for a few hours, she's so happy to see me."

I wonder how often that scene plays itself out for people and their loved ones suffering from the disease.

"Then I'm sure those moments mean that much more to her," I say, feeling as though I could hug this man if I knew him better.

We stop talking as I greet the cashier, and pay for my spaghetti sauce and garlic bread.

"Please take care, " I say to him as I grab my bag and turn to leave. "God bless."

"Same to you," he says and smiles

I make it back to my car and turn on the engine. As I drive away I say a brief prayer for him and hope that when he gets home that his wife remembers, and that for a little while they can know each other again.

Friday, 11 September 2009

I'm determined to finish this trip, even if it has been a few months. Bear with me.

Okay, so, after the wild, wet weather broke (for five minutes) we ventured northwest towards the Isle of Skye and stopped at an amazing place....yes, another castle. But an exquisite sight nontheless, no? Och, aye!

You can't fault us wee American lasses for lovin' the castle thing. Americans don't see the hundreds of years of history still standing all that often.

I recommend the tour. Eilean Donan Castle has gone through a lot of changes in its many centuries of existence and you are able to see the many variations the structure has gone through and which clan was fight over it when, etc.

And the Scottish gentleman answering questions in the Banquet Hall will show you just how big a Scottish Claymore sword really is. No, that is not an innuendo.

Note: when you pick it up the massively heavy Claymore sword, don't drop it or accidentally cleave the skull of the nice Norwegian tourist next to you. It's rude.

Now we come to why Shannon is such a geek. We are walking around inside (where you can't take pictures) and I come across a picture in one of the bed chambers, which happens to be a scene from Highlander. I manage a wide grin and motion Mel over to look. Mel is not a movie-dork like me; she is mostly sane and has no idea what the heck I'm all excited about. Fine. So I revel in my geekiness for a moment more before moving on.

We then moved on to the Skye Bridge, which, funnily enough, is the bridge between the mainland and the Isle of Skye. I would have liked to explore Skye further, but when it is pouring and the wind is against you every step of the way, it's really not worth it. We drove over and back -- because we could-- and then retraced our steps back toward the Cairngorms National Park where we would be staying that night.

Sunday, 05 July 2009

Where was I. Ah, yes, traveling north to Inverness, we visited the lovely and popular Urquhart Castle in Drumnadrochit on the north side of Loch Ness. Urquhart Castle is the number one visitors attraction in Scotland.

Despite the crappy weather, this was worth the stop, as the castle itself, like most Scottish castles has quite the history.

We then stopped in Fort Augustus for a brew and lunch. Somehow Mel ended up with a Coors, which was not to her liking. I think she asked for a Tennants. How it became mixed up with Coors Light, is anyones guess. An apparent communications breakdown with the bartender.

Anyway, we found our lodgings for the evening atthe Glen Albyn Lodge - a fantastic B&B owned by a warm, humorous, and welcoming British couple, Dennis and Helen.

Since it was pouring down rain and we had no idea what to do, Dennis suggested we hike over to the Invergarry castle ruins.

The cool thing about Scotland, and I suspect much of the UK, is the "go at your own risk" thing. Meaning, there is no "private property", and you can go where you like.

So, if the ruins are, say, fenced in with piles of construction paraphenalia and signs such as the following, you can still go in. And if you break a fingernail - or your neck, you can't sue. Oh, how nice that would be in the States.

Yes, we "ignored at our own peril" and squeezed through a hole in the wire fencing. It was nice to see a castle ruin in its skeletal form minus all the placards and neat illustrations explaining what everything was. We stood in the silence, listening to the rain and imagined what it was.

Plus managing to not puncture ourselves on rusty nails meant no tetnus, so it was a win-win.